Give Me Love
by tipthecabbie2.0
Summary: Post-Reichenbach Johnlock, many feels, fluff in later chapters. RATED M FOR SMUT AND GORE, PLEASE DON'T READ IF YOU GET UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THAT
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys, I'm Trixie, this is my first fic c: Johnlock, post-Reichenbach, bit of angst, fluff in later chapters. This was partially inspired by Give Me Love by Ed Sheeran, but I won't put up lyrics, though I recommend listening to it while reading this. Reviews and comments are appreciated, please point out any grammatical errors you find, and I'll correct them, but please try to be nice. I'll put my A/Ns up here so you can just skip them if you want and it won't take away from whatever emotion you feel at the end of each chapter. I'll try to update every day/two days, until school starts, and then once a week. Enjoy!**

Give Me Love, Chapter 1

_ John Watson sat in his armchair, updating The Blog with the details of his and Sherlock Holmes' most recent escapade, a pressing case involving a series of serial kidnappings. The aforementioned Holmes had left their shared flat earlier in the day, in a rage about the dullness of everyday life. John took a sip of his long-since cold tea, when suddenly, Sherlock burst through the door of 221 B Baker st, eyes wild, hair and scarf flung carelessly into disarray, and shouted, "John! COME ON, John! I've just been talking with Lestrade, we've got a BRILLIANT case, John! FIVE murders, all the same! Anderson says that there's no clear cause of death, I suspect Clostridium Botulinum, I'll have to take samples... John? John, are you okay?"_

John Watson woke up, the now-familiar pang of loss paralyzing him for a few moments before he straightened himself out. It had been 422 days since he had seen his best friend jump from the roof of st. Bart's hospital to the ground below, but every night, John still dreamt that The World's Only Consulting Detective would, at any moment, come bursting through the door, grinning at having found a particularly interesting case, or that John would be woken in the night by Sherlock composing a new melody on his violin, or find a head in the microwave.

John stood, tried to straighten his back, failed, and quickly grabbed his cane before he could fall. The damn limp had come back, and John was getting more frustrated by this daily. He had given up on occupying his former room upstairs, but all the same, he couldn't bear to leave Mrs. Hudson alone down in 221 A. He had moved downstairs to the couch of 221 B 14 days after the limp had returned. John had disposed of all of Sherlock's more perishable experiments (just the perishable ones, mind), but otherwise never disturbed any of the detective's numerous possessions except to keep the dust off of them. Actually, John had taken to conversing with the skull on the mantelpiece whenever he got lonely, which was always.

On that day it had been 307 days since John had realized that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes. He had yet to come to terms with the fact that Sherlock was incapable of returning said emotion, not simply because he was dead, but also because even if he had still been alive, love was one of the few concepts that the brilliant man simply couldn't grasp.

John put the kettle on for tea, nearly taking down two cups out of habit. He supposed that he should eat something, as he hadn't yesterday, or the day before, but he simply couldn't find the appetite to. _Mrs. Hudson will probably make me eat later anyway_, John thought. He sat in Sherlock's chair, curling in on himself as his cane slipped to the floor. Even the simple memory of Sherlock had the power to break John down to tears.

Miles away, Sherlock Holmes sat watching the scene in 221 B Baker st. from an uncomfortable office chair in one of his brother's numerous surveillance rooms, biting the first two knuckles on his Left hand to stop himself from sobbing aloud. "It's the same every day, Sherlock. You need to finish this business so you can go back to him." Mycroft Holmes stood, leaning on his umbrella in the newly opened doorway, observing his distraught younger brother. "I do believe he's discovered the depth of his feelings for you." "Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock whispered, with a tremble in his voice that, he realized with a twinge, only John would have recognized. "What's this, dear brother? Is that _sentiment_ I detect in your voice?" Sherlock stood and shouted at his brother, "DO YOU REALLY THINK THAT IF I HAD ANY CHOICE I WOULDN'T BE THERE WITH HIM THIS VERY SECOND? It isn't _safe _for him to know yet. Moriarty's snipers are still trained on him. Until I have eliminated every single _strand_ of Moriarty's web, John _cannot_ know!" His voice broke several times as he spoke, and the tears that had been threatening to spill from his eyes streaked down his cheeks. "He can't know yet."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

* * *

For John, the next 93 days passed in an almost indistinguishable blur. If he slept, it was only ever for short periods of time in order to keep the dreams of Sherlock away. He only ate once every two or three days, and only then to keep Mrs. Hudson from worrying too much. Mycroft and Lestrade each called once a week to check in and make sure that John was coping, and each call was cut short in an almost rhythmic pattern, with John assuring them (rather unconvincingly) in as few words as possible that he would be fine. He worked his shifts at the surgery, occasionally having brief conversations with Sarah or one of the other doctors, usually about the weather or how slow the shift was going, and always avoiding the topic of Sherlock Holmes like the plague. Every day he would don a smile and attempt to convince Mrs. Hudson that yes, he had eaten that day, and pretend to be interested in the crap telly. But not one second passed that his mind was not invested in Sherlock.

* * *

For Sherlock, those three months were also indistinguishable, as he was so fully occupied. In the previous year-and-a-half, Sherlock had managed to compile sufficient evidence to have every major player and most of the associates of Moriarty's 'web' imprisoned for the rest of their natural lives. The last thing that he had to do was track down the assassins tracking Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and, most importantly, John, and wipe them from existence. After that, he could simply hand the rest of the files to Lestrade, as Mycroft had made all the present evidence indisputable, and then, finally, he could go home to John. Sherlock had been counting the days since he had jumped, and he was certain that John was doing the same. It had been 515 days since that last conversation with his Blogger, and he was sorely missing John. It was a curious feeling, being without John. It was like returning to dry land after a full day of swimming in the ocean. He knew, in his head, that nothing had changed from before he had met the doctor, but he still felt the aftershock. It hurt, this feeling, though he could find no physical defect, and Sherlock Holmes, the proper genius, was unable to fathom what it could possibly be. He made a note to ask John about it when he got back.

* * *

Seventeen days later, on the 532nd day, John woke to a shuffling sound in the kitchen. "Mrs. Hudson? Is that you?" he called, still too stiff to see into the kitchen from where he sat. "Good morning, John, how did you sleep?" came a shockingly familiar baritone as Sherlock Holmes brought two steaming mugs of Earl Grey into the living room. John groaned and fell hard against the arm of the couch, covering his face with a pillow. "Go away," came his muffled voice a few seconds later as a bemused Sherlock sipped his tea, "You might as well, I'll wake up in a few moments anyway and you'll still be dead and I'll be alone again. Besides, the only way that Sherlock would make me tea would be if he had insulted my intelligence and was trying to make up for it." Sherlock sat in his armchair after having removed his coat and scarf. "All right, then, John, you go back to sleep, I'll wait."

* * *

Several hours later, John woke again, this time to a soft concerto on violin floating in from his flatmate's room. He rolled over, got up, grabbing his cane, and stalked down the hall, bracing himself as if for impact as he opened the door to Sherlock's room for the first time since he had seen him jump. However well he had braced himself, he was still winded as he drank in the scene before him. Standing among the hundreds of sheaves of paper of composition, in an otherwise spotless room, was Sherlock Holmes, who had stopped playing his grandfather's violin only when he heard the door open. He set his violin on the bed, and not a moment too soon as John stormed up to him and punched him, hard, square in the jaw. "GOD FUCKING DAMN IT! CAN'T YOU JUST LEAVE ME ALONE? THIS IS TWICE TODAY! STOP IT RIGHT NOW, YOU'RE MAKING ME HOPEFUL THAT YOU AREN'T FUCKING DEAD!" and, once again, John Watson fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, sobbing. "John? What are you on about, John?" asked the consulting detective, suddenly crouched beside John, his arms wrapping around the smaller man's shoulders. "You're dead, I saw you jump, this isn't real! It's just another dream, just like every other night since..." the doctor cried, his entire frame shaking as Sherlock sat, pulling him to his chest, calculating how much weight John had lost... 42.5 lbs. A bit not good. "Shhh, John, it's okay, I'm here now, I'm back. I won't ever leave you again, I promise," he whispered, as tears formed silently in his eyes. "I had to make you safe, but I promise now, I'm here, I'm staying, I won't ever hurt you again," Sherlock whispered, soft sobs beginning to rack his chest.

* * *

It took several similar hours, but eventually John could be convinced, and the second he was, he whispered, "How could you just do that? How could you let me believe for a year and a half that you were never coming back? That you were _dead_?" This soft question hit Sherlock harder than any of John's punches could have, and he was not glad that John had opted out of violence. This hurt far worse. He clutched John close to his chest, pressing his face into the sandy blonde hair, and whispered, "I'm so sorry, John. I should have been quicker. I deserve whatever you choose as punishment, in fact, you would be justified in leaving right now and never speaking to me again, but believe me when I say that there was really, truly no other way for me to protect you. Moriarty had paid three snipers in advance to kill you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson if I didn't jump that day. I couldn't let you know that I was alive for your own safety, so I spent the last year-and-a-half collecting evidence against anyone and everyone that Moriarty's ever done his business with. I expect that he isn't dead either, but he's done a Hell of a job concealing himself so far. If there was any possible way that I could have stayed with you, I would have used it. I'm so, so sorry, John, please, please believe me when I say that it was the worst 16 months of my life, hearing Mycroft's 'reports' on your well-being and having no way of letting you know that I was alive, and that you _really_ should have eaten something." he brushed John's hair from his forehead and pressed his lips against his skin, his tears falling into John's hair. "I needed to protect you."

* * *

Sherlock and John stayed collapsed on the floor a while longer, until Mrs. Hudson came upstairs to remind John that he was half-an-hour late for his shift at the surgery, and saw them curled together on the floor of Sherlock's room. she shared a knowing smile with Sherlock, who was holding John, comforting him as he slept peacefully for the first time in nearly 16 months. Mrs. Hudson nodded, a grin spreading across her face, before returning to 221 A to fetch tea and cookies for the three of them. "John. John, wake up, please. Sorry, but we really should move to the living room. You can sleep, I'll put on some crap telly for us. Mrs. Hudson's coming up shortly with tea, but I'm sure she'll understand if you want to sleep. You obviously haven't much lately. Come on, I'll help you up." Sherlock helped John to his feet and continued to support John as the still half-sleeping doctor was moved into the living room. They sat on the couch, John falling back to sleep almost instantly, and Sherlock pulled him close and turned the telly on to watch Dr. Who, though he found the premise idiotic and the writing inaccurate. Mrs. Hudson returned four-and-a-half minutes later with a tray of biscuits and a pot of tea. Mrs. Hudson gasped several times throughout Sherlock's overly dramatic recounting of the past 516 days, and John woke up about halfway through, sighing at the expression on his flatmate's face. After Sherlock had caught the both of them up on what had happened, Mrs Hudson said, "Well, that's lovely, deary, thank-you. Now the both of you, come downstairs, you need to eat. I'll make a casserole, how does that sound?" "That sounds lovely, Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock, at the same time as John said, "Not particularly hungry, but I'd be glad for the company." Sherlock turned and scowled at John. "No. You are going to eat second helpings until I deem that you're back to a halfway-healthy weight. Even I'm going to eat, you've no excuse." John opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it, nodded, and smiled at Mrs. Hudson. "I guess that settles it, then. We'll be down in half an hour, Mrs. Hudson, I have to speak with John."

* * *

Sherlock smiled as Mrs. Hudson left, closing the door behind her, then he sat on the couch and turned to face John, speaking rapidly. "John, I think I'm sick. Ever since I... left, I've had this terrible... heavy feeling inside my chest, as though my lungs are missing and somebody's replaced them with sandbags, and yet, when Mycroft's physician examined me, he could find nothing wrong. John, what if it's fatal? What would happen to you and Mrs. Hudson if-" But he never got to finish his thought, because at that moment, John's lips collided with his, and his carefully constructed thoughts fell to shit. It was a soft, gentle kiss, not begging for anything except contact, not desperate, just wonderful. John started to pull away almost as soon as it had started, but Sherlock kissed him back, savoring the feeling, _attempting_ to catalog this glorious sensation in the Mind Palace, but somehow failing. How odd. But for the moment, he didn't care. He simply wanted to continue this feeling for as long as he possibly could. John started to cry softly, so Sherlock pulled away gently, and asked, "John? John, I'm so sorry! John, did I hurt you? Please, I'm so sorry, please, please forgive me! What did I do wrong, I promise I won't let it happen again!" all the while looking John in the eyes and brushing away each new tear with the pad of his thumb. "Sherlock, you haven't done anything wrong, I promise. It's just... You're really... here. With me. Allowing me to kiss you. It's just that... I thought that you wouldn't want something like this. You're usually so distant, and relationships and physical affection always seemed to disgust you, so I thought maybe you just weren't interested." Sherlock smiled sadly at John and whispered, "Well, you're partially right. I wasn't ever_ looking_ for romantic attachment, until you limped into my life. And even then, I don't think I realized that I was until after I left. John, I am so sincerely sorry that I had to leave you, but I think that we can agree that we'll be that much closer now that we've realized these feelings. I'll admit that I checked in on you with Mycroft's surveillance once, and believe me when I say that I will never allow myself to let you feel that way ever again. John, if it would help, I would even eat on a regular basis. I really care for you, more deeply than I have ever allowed myself to care for another human being. You were right, friends do protect people, but I want to protect you more than anybody else. Please let me, John. Please." John simply nodded, smiling and at a loss for words, and let Sherlock hold him close again. After 15 minutes, they went downstairs for dinner with Mrs. Hudson, after which they called Mycroft and Harry with this happy announcement.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hey, guys! Thank you so much for the lovely reviews! (I mean, what are you talking about, 16-year-olds don't jump around squealing because they got attention, right?) uwu you guys are wonderful! So, here's the next chapter, again, let me know if there's anything that needs to be changed, and I'll do my best!**

* * *

Chapter 3

The next day, John and Sherlock took a cab down to the Yard to see Lestrade and poke fun at Anderson. As they entered the department, Sherlock grabbed John's hand, shooting a look at Donovan when she spilt coffee down her front, eyebrows raised and mouth agape. Anderson actually dropped his mug, which proceeded to shatter and coat both his and Donovan's legs in a thin layer of sugared coffee. John smirked, seeing that Sherlock was obviously biting back yet another comment about Anderson and Donovan's love affair. They walked straight in to Lestrade's office, resulting in Sherlock receiving a lovely bruise on the neck, after Lestrade closed the door and punched him, full force. Sherlock quirked his head. "I deserved that." "Bloody _fucking_ right, you deserved it, Sherlock! What, d'you think I've just had a lovely fucking year looking like a bloody idiot and making sure John here didn't starve himself half to death? How the_ bloody__** fuck**_ do you get off just waltzing in here and acting like it's only been a few days? Do you even know how many cases I've had go cold because you weren't around to annoy us to absolute shit with that massive brain of yours? Sherlock Holmes, you absolute _**arse**_!"

Sherlock, in the meantime, was looking rather amused. "Lestrade. This isn't about me needing new cases, in fact, I'm here about one I've just gotten off of. Here you go, case files on every known affiliate of Mr. James Moriarty. I believe that you'll find this evidence rather conclusive." He pulled three overstuffed manila envelopes from beneath his coat. "Actually, John and I are here for a rather different reason. We've come to invite you to a little get-together that we're hosting at Baker street to celebrate my not being dead as well as the formal announcement of mine and John's relationship. If Anderson and Donovan can behave civilized, they'd be welcome as well. As far as the cases go, the Roberts children were kidnapped by their father, you'll find him in a drug den on the South side, the jeweller was killed by a client who couldn't afford to pay him, this client was coincidentally the body found in the Thames, she went to the bridge and shot herself in the front of the head so it would look like she had been murdered. You'll find that the pearls were stolen by the maid, who later pawned them off to criminals for half what she could have gotten. They are now in Canada, you should call the local police in Vancouver and hope that they're more competent than Anderson and the rest of the buffoons you've hired. And before you ask, I know all of this because I 'reviewed' some of the files that Mycroft had on your affairs here. Now are you going to accept our invitation or are you going to stand there and give yourself a blood clot from clenching your jaw like that?"

* * *

13 days later, 14 days after Sherlock got back, he and John were sitting in the living room at 221 B surrounded by Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Anderson and Donovan (to Sherlock's chagrin), as well as a few of John's co-workers from the surgery, whose names Sherlock currently forgot, and Angelo. Even Harry had sobered up and made an appearance for the occasion. The conversation was light, for the most part, although Sherlock and Molly had been asked several times, much to Sherlock's annoyance, to recount how they had faked his death so well, and Mycroft was asked frequently how he had hidden his brother so well, though each time he was asked, he politely refused to answer the question. John had insisted that because Harry would be present, there should be minimal alcohol present in the flat, as he was hoping that she would stay sober, at least for the night, and so, all present sat in the living room, sipping tea or water, and the overall atmosphere proved to be rather pleasant. Once everybody's questions about his disappearance had been sated, Sherlock produced his violin and began to play a beautiful song in a minor key. John realized around halfway into the song that this was the song that he had overheard Sherlock composing. Just as he realized this, the key changed from mournful and lamenting to reminiscent of pain, and then joy. When Sherlock finished, he received wonderful comments from everybody, even Mycroft, which shocked all those in attendance who had met him prior to this.

* * *

At 11 o'clock, Sherlock claimed that he 'needed to rest,' and promised Lestrade to help with a particularly difficult case the next afternoon, mostly as a polite excuse to tell everyone to shove off. After the crowd had cleared off and Mrs. Hudson had gone downstairs after smiling fondly at her boys, Sherlock turned to John. "So you liked it, then? You recognised it, I know." "Sherlock, what are you even talking about?" "The song, of course! Your song! The one you helped me write!" "Sherlock, I have absolutely no recollection of ever helping you write music, now what are you talking about?" "Really? You don't remember this?" Sherlock asked, capturing John's lips with his own for a fraction of a second, before continuing, "And I'm certain you remember punching me in the face… Or is your memory going, John?" He barely breathed the last part against John's skin, causing the shorter man to shiver and melt for a moment. "Hang on, did you say it was_ my_ song?" "Yes," Sherlock replied, smirking as he continued, "And it's a _damn_ good thing you punched me, or else it would have stayed just as sad and dull as all of the rest of the songs I've written. Thank you for that."


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: Hello, lovelies! Thank you for the follows, favourites, and wonderful reviews! It sort of accidentally turned into smut, so I've had to rethink the rating for this story because of this chapter, because when I'm writing I tend to 'Go with the flow' as 't were. Please review, ego juice is appreciated!**_

**Give Me Love chapter 4**

Sherlock woke up the next morning to the smell of coffee and bacon._ 'Either we're out of tea or John's moved us to America,'_ he thought with a smirk as he rolled out of bed and pulled on his bathrobe. As he walked into the kitchen, John smiled over his shoulder. "Food's on the table, love, I'll be there in a minute, the damn coffee filter broke, so I just have to tidy this." Sherlock walked behind John and took the tea towel from his hands. "You go eat, I'll clear this up, okay? Won't be a moment." He kissed the tip of John's nose and shooed him toward the table. "You're in a good mood this morning, then. How unusual for you, Sherlock." Sherlock smiled as he finished clearing up the mess. "You have no idea, John," he replied, sitting opposite his… He supposed that the usual term was boyfriend, but quite honestly, that didn't begin to cover what John meant to him. Partner was slightly better, but it made them sound almost like business associates, which, come to think of it, they were, but… Sherlock sighed imperceptibly and began eating his scrambled eggs on toast and bacon, for once actually enjoying his food.  
"So, John…"  
"Mmm?"  
"I was thinking…"  
"When aren't you?"  
Sherlock chose to ignore John's slightly sarcastic comment, and continued,  
"We should consider the possibility of a civil agreement at some point, don't you think? Seeing as your supposed heterosexuality has turned and fled already."  
"Sherlock?"  
"Yes, John?"  
"Did you just ask me to marry you, after us being romantically involved for two weeks?"  
"Why, are you opposed?"  
"No, of course not."  
"Well then, I'll take it as a yes. Shall we tell Mrs. Hudson?"  
"Wait a minute, Sherlock. I think that we should wait for a little while. No, not that face, stop that, it's not because I'm not sure. It's just that marriage tends to be done at least a year after the couple becomes romantically involved, that's all."  
"Hasn't it been, though?"  
"Hasn't it been what?"  
"A year. In fact, it's been 432 days since we became romantically involved, it's only the formality that's been in existence for two weeks. I was under the impression that you were aware of this fact."  
"432 days, is it, then? Sherlock, you are aware, of course, that I thought that you were dead until 15 days ago, yes?"  
"Yes, John, I am,_ painfully_, aware of this fact. Your point? Or were you just being an arse and making me feel awful for events that I had no control over?"  
"My point, Sherlock, is that it is terribly difficult to agree to be in a relationship with a man that for all you know is dead."  
"However, you realized that you love me 432 days ago, and therefore, when this relationship started. Don't think Mycroft wouldn't notice the changes in your behaviour, John. He told me, 115 days after my… disappearance… that you no longer seemed to be simply mourning the loss of a friend. That was the day that you stopped eating. That was the day that your limp returned. That night, you cried yourself to sleep for the first time. That was the day that you were no longer only mourning me, but also the love that you were convinced could never be returned. And that, John, was the day that it did start to be returned. I fell in love with you that day, and that was the day that I knew that I needed to protect you from much more dangerous things than snipers and thugs. That was the day that I knew that when I got back, I would need to protect you from me, and, more importantly, from yourself. And therefore, because of that silent promise that I made to you, John, that was the day that I knew that someday, I would marry you."  
John breathed deeply and closed his eyes. He knew that he wanted to marry Sherlock, but he was also still worried that eventually, the detective would find him dull. That Sherlock,_ his_ Sherlock, would leave him again, this time for good, and not because he was dead, but for a much more painful reason: That he, John Hamish Watson, was ordinary. Painfully so. And he was still counting down the days until Sherlock realized it as well.  
"Sherlock-"  
"No, John. I know what you're thinking and I need you to delete that thought right now. You are not, never have been, and never will be simply ordinary. As a point of fact, you are one of the most interesting individuals I've ever had the pleasure of knowing, and that's a part of it there: It truly is a pleasure to know you, John Watson. Now eat your bacon, I've finished already and there's something I want to try."

* * *

Another few minutes found Sherlock practically dragging John into the bedroom, closing the door carefully behind them, before turning to John, lust apparent in his eyes. He gently but insistently pushed John down onto the bed.

John reached for Sherlock, bringing him into a lust-drenched, needy kiss, gasping as Sherlock's teeth grazed his lower lip, gently biting him, reducing him to little more than a quivering heap.

Sherlock's hands left John's jaw, beginning to unbutton his fiancée's shirt, silently thanking him that he hadn't worn a jumper today, as that would have meant needing to separate their lips.

Their lips parted far too soon in both opinions, but neither man had enough oxygen left in their bloodstream, and it was terribly difficult to breathe in the position they had been occupying.

Sherlock moved slowly down his lover's body, leaving a soft trail of kisses down John's ribs, now visible because of all of the weight that he had lost while Sherlock had been away.

Had John's pants always been so tight? He was rock hard long before Sherlock reached the waistband of his jeans and began toying with the button, teasing John horribly. "Sherlock….mmm…."

Sherlock suddenly dropped the charade and pulled both John's pants and his boxers down, freeing his erection and leaving John naked and vulnerable before him. John sat up slowly, never breaking eye contact with his Sherlock, and practically ripped the detective's shirt off, too worked up to care for buttons. "Sherlock?" "Yes, John?" "You're certain that you want to do this, right? Because if you do want to wait, we ca- …mmmmm…."

His sentence was cut short as Sherlock kissed him again in response, even more hungrily than before, and yet still leaving room for teasing _his_ John, careful to make sure that the moans he was eliciting were of pleasure and not pain as he bit his lover's lip gently, deciding that this was a_ very_ good reaction as John moaned and arched his back, baring his neck to Sherlock, who, in turn, began to kiss every inch of the skin exposed to him, occasionally pausing to mark John's skin with love-bites and gentle scratches.

John was soon overwhelmed by the sensation and, feeling as though there were fire in his belly, came, his vision leaving him for several minutes as he collapsed onto the bed. Sherlock leaned down and kissed his John's nose gently. "You sleep now, darling, okay? I'll stay with you, I promise." he kissed John gently, finally successful in cataloguing the sensation and the wonderful taste of John's lips against his own, before finding himself drifting off into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: Wow, three chapters in 24 hours? What is this, Christmas? It's probably just because other than writing, I've done square root of fuck all this summer because I forgot to get a job. As always, reviews and constructive criticisms are well-received. Chapter 4 is probably going to be the last explicit sexy times scene, but there will be implied fornication in later chapters as well. So, without further ado, let's see what's in store for the Baker st. boys today!**_

**Chapter 5**

John was woken suddenly several hours later by a loud crash and a string of curses streaming from the kitchen. He sighed deeply, rolled out of bed, throwing on his clothes without much care, and went to see what Sherlock had done, already expecting some sort of science experiment having to do with severed body parts. What he did not expect, however, was to see Sherlock scrambling to clean the kitchen from a jar of tomato sauce that he had dropped, with what looked like a toilet brush, and what could once have been pasta boiling over on the stove. He tried, and failed, to hold back his resulting fit of laughter. "Sherlock, what are you even doing?" he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. Sherlock looked at him like a kicked puppy. "I was trying to make lunch…" "How long has the pasta been on the boil?" "Half an hour." "Did you read the package?" "No, the instructions frustrated me." John sighed, and smiled at Sherlock, shaking his head. "Sherlock, the longest that you would cook spaghetti is eight minutes, and when the water boils you stir in the pasta and turn the heat down. No, not that face again, I know you tried. Now come on, I'll help you start it again."

Half an hour later, the kitchen was clean, John was more properly dressed, and the boys had invited Mrs. Hudson up for lunch. (John had decided that it would be more prudent to make sandwiches.) They were just finishing up and thinking about putting the kettle on for tea when Sherlock's phone rang, and he left the room to answer it. "Lestrade?" "Sherlock, you're going to want to come down here, there's been a murder, and a nasty one at that. Arnold Hatherly and his wife, Jacqueline. Their son, Hamish, witnessed the whole thing from a closet and called us the second he realised what was going on, but the killer got away anyway. You might want to bring John." "Alright, what's the address?" "60 Sancroft st." "15 minutes." "Alright." Sherlock returned to the kitchen. "Was that Lestrade?" "Yes. There's been an incident at Sancroft street. I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but tea's going to have to wait until later. We've got a real witness this time, John! I just hope he's not still in shock, that would be unhelpful…"

And so, fifteen minutes later, the consulting detective and the ex-army doctor crossed the caution tape at 60, Sancroft st., and walked inside. Lestrade walked up to Sherlock, and asked, "So how do we want to do this? Do you want to speak to the son first, or do you want to see the scene?" "I think I'll see the scene first, it'll give me a better idea how to handle the boy." "Yeah, good idea." So the three of them started up the stairs, stopping on the second flight to examine the body of Mr. Hatherly, sprawled across the stairs as though he had been pushed from standing and landed face-first. "Didn't die here, though. There isn't enough blood, he was killed upstairs and his body was thrown down here after… strange, his wedding band is missing. Why is it missing? He obviously didn't take it off much, if at all, while he was alive, see how there's no tan where it should be? And his glasses were put on his face after he was thrown here, see how his nose has been broken, but there's hardly any blood? That was done after he died, probably when he was thrown here. If his glasses had been on his face then, they would definitely be broken. But they're not. Put on later then. I think that it's safe to say that Mr. Hatherly died before his wife, and quietly, too, or she would have heard… Alright, on to the next, then!" they carefully stepped over the cadaver, careful not to disturb the evidence. As they stepped into the master bedroom, John took in a sharp breath. There was broken glass and blood on every surface but the ceiling, and what must have once been Mrs. Hatherly lay next to the window and was one of the most badly damaged corpses that John, an ex-army doctor, had ever seen. Her legs lay bent the wrong way at the knee as well as having the tibia breaking the skin at the back of the leg. Her head was bashed in at the orbital cavity and the wound had glass from the broken window in it. "Before you ask, we've no idea where the murder weapon went, though it was obviously quite large and heavy… the murderer most likely threw it out the window…" "Her wedding band's missing as well… trophies, then? The legs were also broken post-mortem, so the killer is out for a grudge, inflicting as much damage as possible. It is unlikely that this is a serial killer, as Mrs. Hatherly here is the only one that is damaged in the extreme apart from being dead. The killer probably only killed Mr. Hatherly because he got in the way… You're looking for someone that Mrs. Hatherly would have known either personally or through business, someone who she had seriously wronged at some point in the past… Suspect will most likely have a history of violent tendencies and is possibly psychotic. You said that the son witnessed? Can I speak to him? He may have seen the killer's face, it'd be useful information for obvious reasons." "All right, but please be gentle with him, he has just seen both of his parents murdered. He's downstairs in the kitchen, Donovan's having tea with him, we're just trying to soothe his nerves at this point." "All right. John? Come on, we'll talk with him."

When they got downstairs, they were shocked to see a boy with dark, curly hair not unlike Sherlock's, who barely looked nursery school aged, sitting in the kitchen, sipping a mug of very milky tea and nibbling a biscuit with Donovan. When she saw them come in, she smiled gently at the boy and told him that she would be right back, before getting up from the table and walking over to Sherlock and John, the smile all but disappearing, replaced by a tight-lipped frown. "All right, you can talk to him if Lestrade said you could, but please, _please_ be gentle with him. Try to not… Freak him out too much." "Well, I won't be doing much talking, myself. I think that this situation requires John's expertise, not just mine." He turned to John. "If you could, ask him about what the killer looked like, but if you can't get it out of him without him freaking out, then it's okay. The last thing we need is a traumatised toddler." "Okay." They sat at the table with Hamish, Sherlock pouring them each a mug of tea as John introduced them. "Hello, Hamish, my name is John, and this is Sherlock. How's your tea? Are the biscuits good?" The boy nodded, looking into his crumb-filled tea, a scowl slowly forming over his face. "Crumbs." "Yes, there are crumbs in there, aren't there? Would you like some new tea?" "Yes, please, John. Thank-a', John." John smiled at Hamish and took his tea, pouring it down the drain before returning to pour half-an-inch of tea into the mug, before filling it to half-way with milk and stirring in a cube of sugar, handing it back to the boy. "So, Hamish…" His voice trailed off, not knowing what to say next, dreading the reaction. Apparently he didn't need to think of what to say, because the next second, Hamish was speaking softly. "Mummy's hurt. Daddy's sleeping on the stairs…" He looked up at John, tears in his eyes. "The bad man did it. He was wearing a scary mask." "A mask, Hamish?" The boy nodded, the tears threatening to spill out of his dark blue eyes. "A dolly mask. The bad man was wearing a dolly mask when he hurt mummy." John pressed his lips together, trying to come up with a way to tell the boy that his mum and dad wouldn't be waking up… Suddenly, Sherlock was speaking to Hamish. "Hamish, your mum and dad need to sleep for a very, very long time. Is there anybody that you can stay with? An aunt or an uncle? Grandparents? Godparents?" The boy shook his head. Sherlock looked at John. "John…" His voice trailed off. John nodded, knowing exactly what was meant. He stood, looking at Hamish. "I'm going to be right back, Hamish. You talk to Sherlock, okay? Sherlock, why don't you tell Hamish a nice story or something?" He walked out of the room, looking for Lestrade, who he found talking to Anderson about sweeping for fingerprints. "Greg? Apparently the killer wore a mask." "A mask? What kind of mask?" "Hamish said it was a 'dolly mask'… any ideas?" "No." "Anyway, Lestrade, Hamish says he doesn't have an extended family or godparents that he knows. Sherlock wants me and him to take him in. They get on rather well, actually, Sherlock's really been good about filtering out what not to bring up." "We were actually wondering where he would go… All right, he can stay with you two at Baker st. for a few days. If you guys feel like it would be a good idea after that, you can apply for custody. You have to make sure that Sherlock holds his tongue around him, though, or I'll have his hide."

When they got back to Baker st, they knocked at 221 A to talk to Mrs. Hudson and introduce her to Hamish. "Oh, goodness, and who are you, dearie? My, Sherlock, is he a relative? He looks an awful lot like you!" "No, Mrs. Hudson. Alas, along with Mycroft, I am one of the last two Holmes's." "Hello, lady. I'm Hamish. Sherlock says mummy and daddy need to sleep because the bad man hurt them, so John and Sherlock said I could stay with them until Mummy wakes up." "Oh, dear! Well, come inside, I've just made muffins." "Thank-you very much, Mrs. Hudson, but John and me need to figure out where Hamish is going to sleep, and toddler-proof 221 B before Hamish's bedtime. We'll come by tomorrow when we've had a chance to gather our wits a bit more." "Well, alright, Sherlock, if you'd like I can watch Hamish while you get that together, I'm sure he won't be any trouble." "Could you, Mrs. Hudson? That would be wonderful, we really appreciate it. John, can you please help me with Hamish's things? I think we should share your room upstairs so that Hamish doesn't fall down them in the night, he can have my room. It'll be less moving anyway, I should think."

After they had finished combining their rooms and setting up Hamish's room at least well enough until morning, they kissed for a brief moment before returning to 221A to collect Hamish. "He's very intelligent for two, you know, boys. Told me he had started reading already, so I gave him some of the picture books I was going to donate to the library, and he read them out to me without a problem. And then he looked at me and said the oddest thing after he had read me Peter Rabbit, he said, 'That bunny's mummy in the book is really stupid, it's obvious that he needs to be watched closely if he's running off to the place his father died in', as if it should have been perfectly obvious to any two year old reading it… You're sure there's no relation, Sherlock?" "Yes, Mrs. Hudson, my entire family was dead by the time I turned 8. I'm glad he's intelligent, though, I don't know how long I could stand it if he turned out like Anderson." At that moment, Hamish ran through the doorway and latched his arms around Sherlock's legs. Sherlock smiled and picked him up gently, stroking his hair, and said, "Well, young man, I think it's high time you went to bed, how does that sound? I heard that you read to Mrs. Hudson while we were upstairs?" "Mmhmm. I did. That rabbit has a silly mummy, letting him catch cold like that. She should have given him some mittens and a scarf." "Yes, she should have done, shouldn't she? Come on, we'll get your teeth brushed and your pyjamas on. Say goodnight and thank-you to Mrs. Hudson, now, okay?" "Goodnight and thank-you, Mrs. Hudson," Hamish squeaked. "I'll see you again soon, dears." And with a smile, the three boys went upstairs to get Hamish into bed for the first of many nights he would spend at Baker street.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Hey, guys! I hit 387 visits on this story today! Sorry for the lack of uploads in this story, I've been working on a crossover fic called 'A Very Sherlock Crossover' (in which John and Sherlock go to Hogwarts; I realised that in the BBC canon, because they look about 30 [slight change here, they're the same age in the crossover] and would have been born in or around 1980, the same year as Harry… hilarity ensues) As always, constructive criticism and reviews are greatly appreciated! So let's see what kind of trouble little Hamish gets into at 221 B!

Chapter 6

John woke early the next morning, tangled in Sherlock's ridiculously long arms, to a loud, metallic-sounding crash downstairs. "Sherlock. Sherlock, wake up. We have to go downstairs, I think Hamish's gotten into your chemistry set." Sherlock halfway woke up, looking for all the world as if he was coming off of a drug high. "What?" he asked, raising his eyebrows, his voice thick with sleep. "Oh, all right, go back to sleep, I'll go. If he's hurt, it's your fault for leaving that damn experiment down." Sherlock smiled sleepily, obviously unaware of what John was saying, and closed his eyes.

John carefully disentangled himself from his fiancé and rushed downstairs to see Hamish, sitting in the middle of the living room, surrounded by pots and pans that he had dragged in from the kitchen. "'Lo, John," said Hamish. "A-making music!" "Yes, Hamish, you're drumming, aren't you? Are you hungry? If you give me one of these drums I can make you some scrambled eggs on toast, if you'd like." "'Kay, John, here a'go. Make eggs in this one." He handed John an overly large pasta pot and smiled. "Hamish, this one's a little big for eggs… Can I use this one here, instead?" he asked, pointing to a small cast-iron frying pan and wondering how Hamish had managed not to hurt himself on it. "NO! That's mine favorite! Use that one for eggs." Hamish said, with a certain finality in his voice. "Alright, Hamish, don't get upset, I can use this one. Would you like some tea as well? I was going to make some for me and Sherlock, when he gets up." "No please, John." "Okay."

John noted that there was a definite change in Hamish's manner of speaking around John… He sounded as though he were dumbing his speech down to make himself appear less intelligent. John couldn't help but think that that was something that Sherlock must have done as a child Hamish's age, especially around teachers and extended family, and people that he thought wouldn't understand. He made a mental note to get Hamish to believe him to be intelligent. He made a second note to do the same with Sherlock.

Sherlock stumbled downstairs ten minutes later to find John and Hamish having an animated conversation about sippy cups. John looked up and smiled. "Good morning, love, have a good night's sleep?" "Well it was, and then I woke up and you weren't there anymore. Why are all of these pots and pans on the floor? Is the ceiling leaking?" "I was making music, Sherlock!" "Were, you, Hamish? Would you like me to play you some music on the violin?" Hamish nodded enthusiastically. "All right, I'll be right back, okay?" "Okay, Sherlock."

He returned several seconds later with his violin. "Actually, you know what, John? I'll be right back, I'm going out for a while. Won't be long, okay?" He kissed John's cheek affectionately and mussed Hamish's hair. "I'll be right back, I'm going to get you something. You can make more music if John says it's okay, just make sure you don't wake Mrs. Hudson. Be a good boy and listen to John, okay?" "Okay, see you soon, Sherlock." Sherlock smiled as he pulled on his coat and scarf and shut the door behind him.

* * *

He returned twenty minutes later with a shopping bag behind his back. "Hamish, come here," he called from the doorway. Hamish slid carefully down from his chair and ran over to Sherlock, stomping loudly as children do. "What a' have?"

Sherlock produced an oblong package, about two feet long wrapped in bright yellow paper from behind his back. Hamish jumped and clapped excitedly. "For me?" "Yes, Hamish, it's for you. Here, sit on the couch and you can open it, okay?" Hamish pulled himself up onto the couch and beamed up at Sherlock. "Okay, Sher, ready now!" "Say thank-you to Sherlock, Hamish," came John's voice from the kitchen doorway. "Thank 'a, Sher!" "You're very welcome, Hamish," said Sherlock, handing the toddler his present.

After a small frustration (The store attendant was obviously incapable of wrapping a gift without an entire package of tape), Hamish and Sherlock sat in the middle of a veritable nest of wrapping paper, and Hamish was clutching his very own junior-sized violin, beaming at Sherlock. "I can teach you how to play pretty music on this, Hamish," Sherlock said proudly, and began sticking bits of painter's tape where the different positions were and showing Hamish how to draw the bow across the strings separately to produce different notes. John sat in his armchair, sipping his tea and smiling at the scene before him proudly, and feeling like the luckiest man in the world.


	7. Chapter 7

Seventeen days had passed since Hamish Hatherly had come to live at 221B Baker st. He had begun playing violin at the level of somebody who had been playing for five years or more, and Sherlock was starting to teach him John's song. On the eighteenth day of Hamish's residence, Lestrade came by. "Oh, hey, Greg, what's up?" Said John, emerging from the kitchen where he had been making blueberry muffins ("Yours favourite!" according to Hamish). Sherlock simply looked up and nodded before returning to Hamish's maths (he was teaching him advanced quadratics, quite successfully).

"I'm just checking in... Can I have a word with you and Sherlock?" "Yeah, of course. Sherlock, can you come to the kitchen for a minute?" Sherlock gave Hamish a few final instructions before joining them. "If you're asking about Hamish's parents' murder, I'm suspecting that the murderer wore a Japanese-style Noh mask. As for his connection to Mrs. Hatherly, I'd say to check for any affiliation with gangs or crime syndicates. It's unlikely that he was a past lover due to the lack of damage to her husband, but that's also possible..."

"Actually, I was here about Hamish. We haven't found any relatives, and none of his parents' friends are interested in taking him. Apparently his intelligence scares them. Is he getting on well here, or would you want to find him a home somewhere else?" "He's getting on wonderfully here, I'd like to keep him around... Sherlock?" "Of course we'll keep him. He's a lot like me, though, so we need to make sure he socializes well. How do we apply for custody?"

"I can bring by the forms tomorrow, but I'm sure that Mycroft would get it sorted out much more quickly..." Lestrade blushed slightly. "Yes, how is that going? I wouldn't have thought, but I suppose it would be good for both of you..." Sherlock trailed off. "Wait, what? What's going on?" Asked a very confused John. "It would appear that my brother has deduced my current relationship with Gregory," came Mycroft's voice from the door. "As for Hamish," he continued, "I saw to it that custody over him went to the two of you. This is him, I suppose? Nice to meet you, Hamish, my name is Mycroft, I suppose that I'm a bit like your uncle now."

"'Lo, Mycroft. Go away no, need to focus." "Okay. Are you learning maths?" "Yes, Sher is teaching me." "Quadratic functions?" "Yes. Go away now, Mycroft," said Hamish in a very Holmesian way with a hand wave that made him look even more like Sherlock than usual. Mycroft turned to the kitchen. "He's already so much like you, dear brother," he said with a pained smile. "I'm taking precautions," Sherlock replied.

Just then, the timer for the muffins went off. "Precautions against what, exactly?" John asked as he checked the muffins for done-ness and pulled them out, then walked back to the group and hugged Sherlock from behind, not exactly caring what Mycroft and Lestrade thought. "It would seem that Sherlock is concerned that Hamish, like him and myself, will develop a social disorder or phobia based on how people of average intelligence will treat him. You may have already noticed a difference in how he talks to you or Mrs. Hudson compared to how he talks to Sherlock or myself.

"It's a defence mechanism of sorts. Sherlock and, to a lesser extent, myself used it as well as children, to stop people from being scared or nervous. You'll need to give him plenty of attention, John, make him feel loved or he could end up worse than the two of us, especially with what he's been through." "Yea, about that. He's already showing signs of PTSD. Not just the nightmares, he'd get those regardless, but his right arm has a tremor and he has flashbacks. I know the signs, I still display them, but I have no idea how to help him with this."

Mycroft thought for a moment before concluding, "I'm not sure how much can be done for a child his age, though it was a good job that you got him into a familiar environment after the incident, Gregory, or it may have been much worse." "Well yes, and tea always helps. Something about the tannin..." At which point, Hamish came in to show Sherlock his work. "Look, father! I finished!" Sherlock startled a bit at the new endearment and crouched to look at Hamish. "Hamish, what did you just call me?"

"Father. Is that not good? I heard you talking. You and John are my parents now, right? So you're father and John is dad. I can just call you by your names if you'd prefer, though." Sherlock scooped Hamish up gently, pressing a kiss to the boy's temple and smiling. John wrapped his arms around the two of them, smiling gently at them. Greg and Mycroft shared a look and quietly ducked out, leaving the small family to themselves.


End file.
